Ireland on a Working Visa #14

June 3rd
Garlic. I smell garlic, and as surely as my name is Anthony, I know that this is a wonderful day.

I had gone to Zhivago’s (CD store and ticket outlet) to find out about transport to and from Castlegar Showgrounds (big green Heineken shuttles, free from Eyre Square from 6 on). Then my madness takes over, and despite the rain I decide to take a walk before work.

Rain or shine, Galway runs a Saturday market on Market and Churchyard streets. It’s nothing huge, but neither is Galway, yet for its size there is plenty to choose from: jewelry, clothes, wooden crafts, fresh-baked organic bread, fruit and veg, gourmet olives, etc.

Govinda’s is also set up here, so I pick up some lunch, walk on a bit, and then the garlic stops me. See, I go on about garlic because I’m a bagel aficionado. And not that supermarket pap either – though I will keep a bag of Lender’s around, for emergencies – it’s the New York-style bagels I’m after, packed with grains, as big around as salad plates, and so thick that it’s almost impossible to eat one any way but halved.

I love all kinds of bagels, from poppy seed to sesame seed to wholegrain to sun-dried tomato, but I also love garlic. On principle I include at least one clove with almost all my cooking; combined with a bagel, you get the garlic bagel, one of my favorite foods in the whole of the wide world.

Living in Scotland, I’d resigned myself to not being able to find much in the way of bagels. The craze so common to us Americans hasn’t really taken in the Highlands, yet on a rainy day in the west of Ireland a bagel stand is selling thick, pungent, garlic bagels for 50p each. It is the smell of garlic, emanating from here like a siren song, er, scent, that has stopped me. I only buy two, though; I’d get more, but if they went stale before I could eat them, I’d never forgive myself the loss.

Garlic bagels, Govinda’s for lunch, and the Fun Lovin’ Criminals concert starts in 9 hours, at 8 p.m. – it’s a good day. A damn good day.

At work now, and the FLC concert now starts in six hours, but I’m karaoking away to Mimosa, the band’s third album. I’m also smiling rather evilly (which, now that I think about it, could be part of why so few people are coming into the shop), and if I had a long thin mustache, I’d be twirling it.

See, I can’t help it, but I’m a bit of an evil little bastard. Okay, I can help it, but I don’t want to – it’s far too enjoyable a condition. But I digress; a few weeks ago, I was on the phone with Ewan, my best mate, and during the course of the conversation he told me that he wouldn’t be able to make it over to Galway for the concert. Ewan had started a new job and couldn’t get the time off, and we were both pretty disappointed. For starters, we’ve not seen each other since I came over to Ireland in April, and I also know how much Ewan likes the FLC – in fact, he got me into their music.

So Ewan can’t make it, and I really wish he could. It’d make a surefire kick-ass night into an absolute city-wide hellraising – but mainly I’d just like to see my best mate.

But, unfortunately, like I said, I’m also an evil little bastard, so after my visit to the Saturday market, Govinda’s and the ambrosial bagel stand, I go to a phone box in Eyre Square to ring Ewan, and when his answering machine picks up I grin and say: “Ewan! Hey, it’s Ant! Just wanted to give you a head start on hating me: the FLC concert starts in a few hours – but not only that, after the concert, they’re also going down to a bar here in town, and playing and DJ’ing even more! Well, wish you could be here, but you just couldn’t get off work, could you? Oh well, mate… talk to you later. Bye!”

A bit mean, I know, but also damn funny – and with potential for even more fun. See, Ewan and I never pass up an opportunity for a good piss-taking, be it on each other, or in collusion with each other, while pranking a friend, so I consider it my duty, as a friend, to milk as much as I can out of these messages – oh, wait a sec: it’s now 6 p.m., and time for the reading.

It’s IR£3 to attend the hour-long poetry reading at the Galway Arts Centre, and it turns out that this is just the first of a summer program of similar readings. I’d like to go into detail on the poets, Martin Espada and John F. Deane, but I wouldn’t do them justice. They were both good, though I liked Espada’s work more than Deane’s, but that’s about all I can tell you, as I spent most of the reading trying and failing to clear my head of images of stages and snippets of songs.

Just before I leave for the concert I ring Ewan (and get his answering machine) again, and what better message to leave, than some somethings from FLC songs and covers, to wish my friend well and at the same time make him as jealous as possible about the night I’m going to have (though if you don’t know any FLC songs, you may want to skip this next bit):

“Sorry you can’t make it to the concert with me Ewan, but hey, if Barry White saved my life, and if after seven Jack-n-Cokes I’ve got supermodels on my knees, with puckered-up lips and a way that I find cute-and I said Baby baby baby-then everything is cool, and everything is smooth; it’s time to blow, you know, so out the door I go. This rock has got to roll, so I hit the road and made my getaway, but don’t worry-I’ll be seein’ you. In all the old familiar places, I’ll be seein’ you.”

Grabbing the last aisle-only space on the shuttle bus to Castlegar Showgrounds, outside of Galway I soon see, above the trees, the four conical tops of the of the big blue tent where the Green Energy concerts are housed. A nice bit of foresight, and one I’m really glad for; the thought of a roofless concert in Ireland had me a bit worried.

Once under the tent, ticket stub in my pocket, I check my watch.

Eight o’clock.

Show – oh, wait a sec: Irish time; make that nine o’clock, when the FLC take the stage.

Showtime.

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